


Homecoming

by beetle



Category: Star Trek
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-17
Updated: 2013-05-17
Packaged: 2017-12-12 03:21:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/806613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beetle/pseuds/beetle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hikaru Sulu's never really had a home or family, and doesn't know how to be comfortable in either. Originally started as a ficlet for the slashthedrabble prompt, “left”, but it grew. This is why you don't feed prompts after midnight, and you never. Ever. Get them wet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Homecoming

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Not mine at all.  
> Notes/Warnings: Takes place after the mission, post-movie by five years.

For Lieutenant Hikaru Sulu, the mission doesn't end when they get back to Earth, to debriefing and acclaim.  
  
  
Nor does it end two days later, in Shushary, a southern suburb of Saint Petersburg, outside a narrow, dark-stoned, old-fashioned townhouse. There's no feeling of  _coming home_  for him, though clearly he's the only one who feels this way, judging by the happy, wistful little sigh from his left.  
  
  
The thing is . . . Hikaru just  _doesn't_  get it.  
  
  
Doesn't get missing  _any_  place, not just this particular townhouse (tall, imposing, hemmed in on both sides by other, attached townhouses, and simply  _not_  the sort of warm, friendly-looking, cheery place Hikaru imagined Pavel growing up in). He's never been nostalgic about any place he's lived: not the places he spent his childhood, or even the Academy, something that's made even a rebel like Kirk go wide-eyed with surprise and complete incredulity.  
  
  
(“Really?” he'd asked, leaning closer as if Hikaru was imparting some great, terrible secret. He'd even dropped his voice into a hoarse, slightly disapproving whisper, as if anyone else in the Federation bar cared what four more Starfleet officers were saying. The other occupants of the table, Spock and Pavel, had looked impassive and curious, respectively. But Kirk seemed almost angry, and had seemed that way for weeks. Shipboard rumor had it that the weird on-again/off-again thing he has with Dr. McCoy was decidedly  _off_. Again.  
  
  
And wasn't likely to be  _on_ -again any time soon, though not for lack of trying on Kirk's part.  
  
  
“C'mon, H, you don't miss the Academy even a  _little_?”  
  
  
“I was there to learn new skills and improve old ones. Once I went as far as I could go. . . .” Hikaru had shrugged, unable to finish explaining without sounding callous. He had had many acquaintances at the Academy, but few close friends. And most of those close friends had died when Nero destroyed half the fleet. In fact, the only friend who survived that incident was Pavel, and even he wasn't exactly a friend till circumstance dumped them both on the Bridge of the Enterprise. Hikaru'd long ago grieved for the fallen, and his friends among them. So there was really nothing left at the Academy to miss. “My goal was a post on a starship, and the Academy helped get me there. That was the purpose it served in my life.”  
  
  
Spock had nodded his approval, Kirk had shaken his head, still in disbelief, and Pavel had covered Hikaru's hand with his own.  
  
  
Hikaru hadn't even realized how long he'd been staring at Pavel's hand until Kirk absently (and probably seriously, Kirk being Kirk) told them to get a room, and Pavel jerked his hand away as if burned. He refused to meet Hikaru's eyes for the rest of the night.)  
  
  
It's freakish, Hikaru knows, his lack of nostalgia or sentimentality for a place or point in time. But he doesn't get attached much of anything or anyone. Has never seen the point, because even if it takes a year or three or five . . . places change. And so do people, usually, as they tend to come with the places one winds up in. If Hikaru has a life philosophy, it's this: take every place and person on its terms, and let them go the same way.  
  
  
It's a way of viewing the world that's stood him in good stead, has kept him from forming unwise attachments. Though not so much, recently. Not with the crew of the Enterprise. The life philosophy that had carried Hikaru through the twenty-three years before Enterprise hasn't so much abandoned him, as it's begun to seem . . . obsolete.  _Because_  of Enterprise--not so much the ship, though he has become partial to her, since he knows how she flies, and how to get the most out of her. She's a solid workhorse of a bird with a maverick soul--and her crew, he's begun forming attachments that he hadn't intended.  
  
  
He will  _miss_  the ship, if he's not reassigned to her. This is a new feeling for him, and not at all pleasant. It gnaws at him, like worry and razorblades, and will till he hears how his reassignment shakes out.  
  
  
He will  _miss_  his crewmates--his  _friends_  if he is unable to serve with them on the next mission. Will miss the strange, random-but-somehow-not philosophical discussions Spock occasionally seeks him out for. Would miss Tai Chi, with Nyota, and her surprisingly wicked sense of humor. Would miss getting drunk with Scotty on leave, and talking warp drives. Would miss the way McCoy sometimes slips and calls him “son” while patching him up--as if Hikaru isn't just ten years younger than him.  
  
  
He'll even miss that insane look in Kirk's eyes when things get hairy (sure, the guy'd mellowed over the course of five years, but he's still a fucking lunatic, sometimes).  
  
  
Most of all, he'd miss the person standing right next to him, slipping a mittened hand into his own.  
  
  
The thought of Pavel being stationed on some other ship, far from where Hikaru could keep an eye on him . . . literally look over and  _see_  him, plotting a course . . . catch that smile that makes his heart do weird calisthenics in his chest. . . .  
  
  
Pavel's hand turns in his and squeezes reassuringly, and he kisses Hikaru's cheek. “Poor sveetheart. You are nervous?” he teases, his cheeks and nose gone ruddy in the chilly air. He's bundled up in a big blue coat, fluffy red hat and scarf, and grinning so wide, his face is probably in danger of cracking, in this weather.  
  
  
He's so beautiful, it makes Hikaru ache simply to look at him. So he wraps his arms around Pavel and kisses him, till the ache recedes, and the world seems a bit less cold.  
  
  
Relatively speaking. Hikaru suspects winter in Saint Petersburg doesn't really get much warmer than this.  
  
  
“Nah, I'm not nervous. But  _should_  I be?” he asks, and Pavel hugs him tight.  
  
  
“Seelly. Of course not,” he murmurs in Hikaru's ear, then leans back to look into his eyes. He's still grinning, big and happy, and it's impossible not to get caught up in his optimism. “Hikaru, my parents will love you. You'll see. Everything will be fine.”  
  
  
Hikaru looks up at the house once more. At the wrought-iron fence that partitions it from other house and from the street. It's like something out of one of those old  _movies_ , that never look quite right on holo, that still look two-dee. The windows are narrow and shuttered, and the door looks like it might be made out of . . .  _wood_. It's got a code-lock on it, but also one of those old things that sits on the door for knocking.  
  
  
It's all very surreal for a guy who grew up in various state-run Creches all over Southern California--this place doesn't look like home, even if Hikaru were ever inclined to call someplace that. Pavel aside, he isn't entirely sure he could relate to someone who'd spent their life in a place like this. That he would know how to  _be_  in their presence, and in their . . .  _home._  
  
  
“So, can I get that in writing?” he asks, meaning for it to sound like a joke, but it just sounds weak, timid, and lame--three things Hikaru Sulu's never been.  
  
  
“ _S'olnyshko_.” Pavel turns Hikaru's face to his own, his blue eyes very serious. “You believe me, yes? That it will be okay?”  
  
  
“Of course I believe you,” Hikaru sighs, leaning his head against Pavel's. His breath is warm, and smells like candy canes and hot cocoa. He's been mainlining both since they got off the shuttle in Moscow. “I just . . . nerves, I guess. Something. They'll pass once I get my land-legs again.”  
  
  
Pavel tsks. “Perhaps. And once you get a good night of sleep. You toss and turn every night for the past two veeks.”  
  
  
“Have I?” Pavel nods. “Shit, baby, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to disturb you--”  
  
  
“Hush. Is not  _my_  sleep I am worrying about,” he says, then visibly stops himself from saying more. He seems frustrated and a little unhappy, but he brightens (suspiciously quick) before Hikaru can ask, and kisses him on the cheek with an extravagant smacking sound. Then he looks up at the house, too, frowning as he pulls off his fuzzy, red mittens. “We should go inside. They will be wondering why we stand out here so long.”  
  
  
“Um. Okay.” Hikaru grabs their carry-alls and follows Pavel into the long, narrow yard. At the wooden door, Pavel quickly teaches him the lock-code, not that Hikaru's likely to remember which Cyrillic characters come when. Odds are pretty damn high that he'll have forgotten it on the other side of the door.  
  
  
And sure enough, once they step into a warm, dim hallway that's paneled in old, dark wood, the code's been driven clean from his mind. There's someone already calling Pavel's name in tones of excitement and welcome.  
  
  


*

  
  
  
“My, em, my Mama and Papa are . . . both teachers,” Pavel had told Hikaru after shift one night, throwing an arm and leg over him as if to keep him from leaving.  
  
  
Not that Hikaru would've been inclined. They were in bed, in his quarters (Pavel's rank meant that he still had to share a room, and his roommate's favorite hobby was doing absolutely nothing. And he always did it in their quarters), halfway between afterglow and sleep, when Pavel had brought his parents up so hesitantly.  
  
  
Hikaru had run his hand along Pavel's flank and kissed his messy hair. No matter how many times he told Pavel that talking about his family is completely cool, Pavel always seems to think that Hikaru might be . . . offended, or possibly hurt. As if growing up without parents would make him disdainful of anyone who might have them. “Hmm . . . what do they teach?”  
  
  
“Oh, well. My Mama teaches Russian Literature, and my Papa teaches Art History,” he'd said with shy pride, and Hikaru had laughed.  
  
  
“No way! I figured your parents would be theoretical physicists, or non-linear math professors--or possibly even computers, considering how  _you_  turned out, Brainiac.”  
  
  
Pavel had laughed and wriggled against him like a sleepy guppy, and that moment was the first time Hikaru consciously thought that he might not mind  _this_  for the foreseeable future.  
  
  
“So, uh, did your folks think you'd be a teacher, too?” It'd make a sort of sense, but Hikaru couldn't imagine Pavel being  _Professor Chekov_ , who doles out pass-or-fails and labyrinthine homework assignments.  
  
  
“ _Nyet_ , Papa hoped I'd be an artist, and Mama . . . was just pleased I  _didn't_  become an artist.” Pavel had yawned. He was fading fast--and no wonder, after pulling a double shift then having the kind of energetic, stress relief-sex they'd both desperately needed. It'd been a bitch of a week for the half of the crew that wasn't sick with the Saurian Pox. Every day brought doubled shifts and work-loads for the healthy. “Neither of them knows where the math and physics came from. Papa used to call me his changeling son.”  
  
  
“Hmm.” Hikaru hadn't been able to tell if the irony in that statement was  _simply_  ironic, or if it was also rueful. Parent-child dynamics are another thing he's never experienced or understood. He hadn't been sure whether to laugh, offer comfort, or simply pretend nothing had been said. All he knew was that while he had wanted to offer comfort, if needed, he also didn't want to inadvertently make Pavel upset.  
  
  
While he was trying to figure it all out, Pavel had drifted off to sleep. . . .  
  
  
But, surprising as it'd been to learn that Pavel's parents were about as far removed from math and physics as one could get,  _nothing_  could've prepared Hikaru for actually meeting the Chekovs.  
  
  
”Please to call me Andrei, Heekaru!” Mr Chekov insists in English (with an accent that makes Pavel's sound positively American-local) as soon as Hikaru steps into the house. Hikaru barely has a moment to get the impression of bright blue eyes like Pavel's, crazy reddish curls, and a boxer's build before Mr. Chekov's enveloped him in a bear hug that realigns his spine. “Welcome home!”  
  
  
“ _Gah_. Unh. Thanks.” He really doesn't have the oxygen to say more than that. At least until Andrei lets him go, leaving behind the scents of strong tea and hot metal. He slings an arm around Pavel, who tops him by two inches (the eyes and the curls are all the two men have in common, physically, but they radiate the same kind of warmth and friendliness, the same kind of passion for life that Hikaru's noticed since the day he met Pavel) and they'd both grin at Hikaru, all perfect teeth and pink cheeks.  
  
  
“Come!” Andrei shoos Pavel ahead of him before grabbing Hikaru and doing the same. The wooden walls are loaded with photos--the old kind and the digital kind. But even the digital ones don't move or change. It's like a wall of happy, frozen times, leading to a narrow, ascending staircase, and beyond that, perhaps a kitchen? Hikaru can't be sure. He's never been in a house this . . .  _old_. “My vife said ve vould owervhelm you both, storming the hallvay as soon as you come in the door, but I said no! If we don't storm the hallvay, they vill think ve are not home! They vill think ve forgot, and vent out for pizza! So I storm the hall, and she sits in the leewingroom, and--”  
  
  
“Mama!” Pavel exclaims, frozen in the fan of light spilling from the doorway on the left, then darting in.  
  
  
Hikaru isn't even aware he's stalled, until Andrei puts a hand on his shoulder and squeezes it kindly, urging him the last few strides to the doorway  
  
  
“Is okay,” he says, and it's eerie how much he sounds like Pavel, even though the voice is deeper, and the accent is thicker. “Is okay, you vill see. Zhenya is a wery . . . ah! She is a wery  _proper_ voman, but she has wery big heart. She loves Pavel, and if you are making Pavel happy, she vill love you, too.”  
  
  
And with that, he shoves Hikaru into the livingroom.  
  
  
Like the hallway, this room is also narrow, also paneled in dark, old wood. The furniture is heavy and . . . baroque. That's probably the word. Two large comfortable sofas run almost the length of the room, with a coffee table between them. At the far end of the room is a small piano that sees use and a doorway leading into another room.  
  
  
And if Hikaru had thought the walls of the  _hallway_  were covered in photos. . . .  
  
  
But closer to hand, Pavel's babbling in Russian and hugging the life out of a woman who's roughly his height. He's laughing and probably crying a little, it sounds like. The woman is holding him back just as tightly, not saying a word, just nodding, her eyes closed tight.  
  
  
It's something Hikaru's seen often enough, mothers, hugging their long-absent children--living on Academy grounds, that had kinda come with the territory--but for some reason, he can't look away, now. Is struggling to process what he's seeing and what he's feeling in response to it. He barely even notices when Andrei helps him out of his coat and disappears with it, muttering over his lack of hat.  
  
  
When Pavel and his mother let go to look into each other's eyes, it's as if they don't need words to communicate, not really. And Hikaru misses, for the first time since he was very little, the mother he never knew. Wonders how he'll possibly fit in if the first and most common human relationship is one he can't quite wrap his head around.  
  
  
Finally Pavel's mother removes his fuzzy red hat and cups his face in her hands. Then she says something in Russian that makes Pavel blush, and look proud all at once.  
  
  
“Vell, I don't know about  _handsomer_ , but I got a  _leetle_  taller. And I did  _not_  grow a seelly mustache and goatee like cousin Oleg did. He looked like his own evil tvin the last time I saw him,” Pavel says in English, and giving Hikaru a brief but tender smile (right on cue, Hikaru's starts those calisthenics), before adding formally. “Mama, this is my boyfriend, Lieutenant Hikaru Sulu. Hikaru . . . this is my Mama, Yvgeniya.”  
  
  
Physically, she couldn't be any less like her husband. She's long and slim, like Pavel, but with straight brown hair worn in a ponytail. And it's definitely clear where Pavel got his striking bone structure from. Her eyes are dark and very serene. Intelligent and endless . . . kind of like Spock's.  
  
  
And thus, very hard to read.  
  
  
“How do you do, Heekaru?” she asks in a low, sonorous voice, and with much less accent than Pavel. She holds out her hand as Hikaru steps forward and he briefly debates whether he should shake it, or kiss it. He settles on the former, and expects her hand to be cool. He's surprised to find that it's warm, even if she isn't . . . not exactly. “I am Yvgeniya. Welcome to Saint Petersburg.”  
  
  
“It's good to be here, Mrs--um, Yvgenia,” he mutters, like a chastened schoolboy, but when Pavel comes to his side and takes his hand, he stands a little straighter and even attempts a smile. Despite the passing resemblance, she couldn't  _possibly_  be scarier than Spock . . . he hopes. “Thank you for having me.”  
  
  
“Pavel has written of you often, and we are very excited to at last meet you.” Yvgeniya nods once, her eyes ticking between them, then to their linked hands. Her mouth curves ever-so slightly, like she's tempted to smile . . . but like her facial muscles might not permit such an excessive display. She has such an air of old-world reserve and respectability, but she's cordial, if not especially warm. Her fondness for Pavel and vice versa is unmistakable, and Hikaru thinks that Andrei was exactly right about the quickest way to Yvgeniya Chekov's heart.  
  
  
And though that makes him vaguely nervous—what if he's  _not_  making Pavel as happy as he should be? What if Pavel's only pretending to be happy to spare his feelings? What if . . . oh, a million things?--that also makes him want to like her, and feel as if he  _might_ , in time.  
  
  
Just then, Andrei comes back in, announcing that he's taken their carry-alls up to Pavel's room, and that his back is now broken beyond repair. Pavel makes a rude noise, and Yvgeniya gives him a Spockishly ironic look, and notes that if his back is ruined, that means he'll be spending more time grading papers like he should, and less time tinkering around in the basement with old metal junk.  
  
  
At which point Andrei coughs, and allows that he may have overstated his injuries somewhat.  
  
  
It quickly becomes plain that the Chekovs don't stand on formalities regarding a teatime lunch. Hikaru finds himself dragged to the door near the piano, and into a smallish dining room with a wooden dining set that must be decades, if not hundred of years old. He's half afraid he'll get dumped on his ass, with fond regards from Murphy's Law, as soon as he sits. But the chair doesn't even creak. And it's actually . . . comfortable, even though it in no way automatically conforms to his unique sitting needs. . . .  
  
  
Pavel sits across from him at the long oval table, grinning as if to say  _see? I told you so_ , and Hikaru rolls his eyes. That grin turns sly and suggestive, and Hikaru nearly jumps when Pavel's toes brush his ankle, and tickle their way slowly up his leg.  
  
  
And  _everything_ 's fine in Footsie-land until Andrei bustles in like Chef Raggedy Andy, carrying a three-tiered tray  _loaded_  with food. More food than ten starving people could eat, it seems to Hikaru, who's frantically, unsuccessfully trying to swat his boyfriend's clever toes away from his all-too-interested dick.  
  
  
“Mama is right behind me vith the rest--eh, vhy you smiling so big, Pasha?” Andrei asks, glancing at Hikaru, who puts his hands on the table and tries to look clueless, nonchalant and non-turned on. He even manages a mostly non-guilty grin as Andrei sets the tray down between he and Pavel.  
  
  
There's so much food, Hikaru can just barely, if he sits up straight, see the top of Pavel's hair. There's fuzzy, red lint in it.  
  
  
Pavel's toes tease and promise with the ease of long practice before disappearing with a final, reluctant caress. “Em. I'm only smiling because everything looks  _so vonderful_ , Papa!”  
  
  
Which sounds about as kosher as a six strip bar of latinum. At least to Hikaru's ears. So he reaches for the first likely looking piece of food--something so red, it has to be beet-based, and he  _hates_  beets--and crams it into his mouth. Somehow he doesn't spit it right back out.  
  
  
He tells Andrei, and Yvgeniya, when she comes in, how delicious it is, and hopes he's at least a better liar than Pavel.  
  
  


*

  
  
  
It's an only mildly awkward lunch--of dumplings, stuffed mushrooms, carrot salad, stuffed cabbage, kasha, and beet caviar (not as horrific after a few mouthfuls and a cup of taste-bud immolating tea)--for Hikaru.  
  
  
Throughout, Pavel and Andrei keep up a steady stream of chatter, the former asking about family and friends Hikaru's never heard of, and the latter filling the room with loud and amusing anecdotes about the same. Including Cousin Oleg, of the unfortunate facial hair.  
  
  
Hikaru and Yvgeniya make tentative forays into their own conversation: first, Russian literature, (about which Hikaru knows nothing. He barely knows anything about  _English_  literature, and he's never been much of a reader). Then air and spacecraft (about which Yvgeniya knows almost nothing, though she puts a brave face on it).  
  
  
With a little nudge of interest, that he would only recognize as polite in retrospect, she asks him his thoughts on a recent  _Popular Mechanics_  article regarding the likelihood of achieving warp factor ten before the turn of the century.  
  
  
It's a rant Hikaru doesn't surface from for almost ten minutes.  
  
  
“. . . which isn't to say the so-called 'ultra-warp drive' being viable in our lifetimes is  _impossible_ , it's just highly, highly improbable. I mean,  _I_  couldn't give you the numbers on that, but Pavel could, couldn't you, babe? And even assuming we could create a viable drive--which is a hell of a lot to assume, given the limits of our technology--piloting even a shuttle-craft outfitted with such a drive . . . it'd be equal parts dream and nightmare. Who knows what would happen to the ship once it crossed the transwarp threshold? What'd happen to the pilot? It's all ghosts and shadows when you're talking infinite velocity--nothing but speculation, and no solid hypotheses,” Hikaru finishes with a satisfied nod, and realizes that every eye at the table is on him.  
  
  
Andrei looks like he's trying not to laugh, Yvgeniya's eyes have glazed over, and Pavel's looking at him like . . . well, Hikaru could do some speculating on what that look means, but he already knows he could be on the receiving end of it all day, every day. Twice on Sundays and Federation holidays. For the rest of his life, even.  
  
  
“Do you know much about engineering and mechanics, then--such as plasma velding?” Andrei asks like a man with an idea, and Hikaru's about to demur when Pavel's toes reintroduce themselves to his thigh, mere inches from the Insta-Boner, and he yelps a little, then clears his throat at the last second. Pavel smiles smugly, licking his lips as he slouches in his chair and looks down at his glass of fruit punch.  
  
  
“I, uh . . . yuh-yeah. I've pulled a few, uh, shifts in Engineering. Helped r-repair my fair share of engines and hulls,” he answers, clearing his throat again and trying to dislodge Pavel's toes without actually moving. But Pavel's applying pressure with the ball of his foot and looking steadily at Hikaru through his eyelashes.  
  
  
 _I want you to fuck me_ , he mouths clearly, and Hikaru stifles a groan.  
  
  
“Oh, this is wery good!” Andrei enthuses, and even Pavel starts guiltily. For a horrifying moment, Hikaru thinks Andrei means the . . . toe-job . . . and if nothing else, that gives him the impetus to ease one hand under the table, catch Pavel's foot and squeeze it warningly.   
  
  
Ignoring the sexy little pout aimed his way, Hikaru keeps a rein on Pavel's foot and smiles blandly at Andrei. “It is?”  
  
  
“Oh,  _wery_  good! And you have used laser velder as vell, yes?”  
  
  
“Yes--” Hikaru says at the same time Pavel sighs and says, “Papa,  _stop it_ ,” pulling his foot away and sitting up straight.  
  
  
“Ah, of  _course_  you have, a smart boy like you!” Andrei stands up, hands on his hips. “So you vill come help me vith my leetle project, and tell me all about your adventures vhile ve vork.”  
  
  
“It's been a long day, and Hikaru is wery tired,” Pavel starts, and it's almost a whine. Add to that the thwarted, mulish look on his face and . . . he's incredibly cute when he's being a brat. Though he's right about Hikaru being tired--hell, they're  _both_  tired.  
  
  
“It's okay, Pavel. Between high school metal shop and working shifts under Scotty's command, I should be fine. And anyway, you and your mom need a chance to catch up. Um.” He stands up, glancing quickly at Andrei's expectant face and Yvgeniya's unreadable one, then back at Pavel. Tells himself that the only one who matters in this room, is Pavel. “ _Ya lyublyu tebya. Ya postoyanno dumayu o tebe_ ,” he says slowly, with all the feeling he dares, and without breaking Pavel's startled gaze.  
  
  
Hikaru's been practicing different ways to say it for months, and waiting for just the right time. But  _no_  time ever seemed right, and though now isn't ideal--though his accent probably (definitely) sucks--this feels like The Moment. The one where he can't possibly go another hour, or even another minute without telling Pavel how he feels in plain terms. And even if Pavel doesn't say it back, Hikaru knows his feelings are returned.  
  
  
Has known for some time, his occasional doubts notwithstanding.  
  
  
“I . . .  _lyubimiy_ , come here and kiss me before you go,” Pavel says, obviously trying for playful, but not quite making it. He kinda looks like he might cry or maybe laugh . . . but either way, Hikaru's inching past Yvegeniya and around the table. He bends slightly, planting one hand on the table and the other on the arm rest as Pavel sits up to meet his kiss.  
  
  
While this by far isn't the most passionate kiss Pavel's given to him  _that day_ , there's just _something_  about it that makes everything that  _isn't_  the kiss not only cease to matter, but cease to be. . . .  
  
  
Then when it ends, so ends the universe, only . . . Hikaru's still standing. Swaying a little loopily, but standing. Staring into Pavel's eyes and realizing, for the first time, just how deeply in love he's fallen, and is still falling. Falling perhaps from the moment Pavel touched his hand in that lame Federation bar.  
  
  
“I love you, and will think of you, too.  _Often_. Oh,  _such_  things I will think, my love,” Pavel whispers huskily, cupping Hikaru's face in his hands, and obviously about to kiss him again. Doesn't get the chance, though, thanks to Andrei dragging Hikaru out of the room by the wrist, well into a pidgin-y monologue about the sickening sweetness of young love. The last thing Hikaru sees before the lintel blocks his view of the diningroom, is Pavel's smile, beaming and sultry at the same time, and a similar smile on Yvgeniya's face--minus the sultriness.  
  
  
Then he's being tugged out of the livingroom, toward the narrow staircase and past it. His feet don't touch the ground once until they stop at a wide, wooden door set in the side of the staircase.  
  
  
“That vas handsomely said, Heekaru. Exactly the right thing, at exactly the right time,” Andrei notes, switching tracks from rant to approval like an old pro as he turns to face Hikaru, grinning crookedly. “I believe you have stolen my vife's heart, as vell as my son's.”  
  
  
While Hikaru blushes and stammers, Andrei opens the door under the stairs, flicking a wall-mounted switch. And just like a  _movie_ , lights come on. It's almost magical, and Hikaru, despite his reservation about old-fashioned houses, is charmed.  
  
  
“After you,” Andrei says grandly, bowing like a stage magician, and Hikaru steps onto the landing. The stairway is narrow but sound, the basement below well lit and neat from what little he can see. And if what little he knows from holos and  _movies_  is true, there'll either be a rec-room down there where he and his boyfriend's father will drink and bond while watching some Russian sporting event. Borscht-ladling, or something.  
  
  
Or there'll be a dungeon and an ax-wielding psychopath.  
  
  
Swallowing reflexively, Hikaru descends the sturdy (wooden) staircase.  
  
  
The basement is narrow and long like the rest of the house, and filled with all sorts of familiar tools and equipment. And strange looking sculptures, most of which seem half-finished, not that Hikaru's an expert, and. . . .  
  
  
“Fuck me sideways--I mean you, uh, weren't kidding about the welding, hunh? That wasn't just an excuse so we could give Pavel and Yvgeniya some alone-time, you were serious.”  
  
  
“Of course!” Andrei booms from right behind him, clapping his shoulder as he strides by, a man very much in his own element of welding tools and junky metal. “Pavel and Zhenya must catch up, yes, but art? Is wery, wery serious business! Now come, you vill tell me about Enterprise, and Pavel, and yourself, and you vill help me create art until supper.”  
  
  
 _Of course,_  Hikaru thinks, rolling up his sleeves.  
  
  


*

  
  
  
Despite their solemn vow to  _not_  have sex in Pavel's parent's home (at least not on the first night, though this is a vow they both acknowledged is unlikely to be kept) that night, after supper and hours of easy conversation, sloshed on expensive Russian vodka, they tumble into Pavel's old room, kissing and touching like they haven't done either in ages. Pavel's hands are hot and unusually clumsy. Desperate, like he'd do anything to get off, and it's  _that_  thought, and  _this_ imagery that makes Hikaru harder--unbearably so.  
  
  
There's barely any light coming in through the window, and their breathing is incredibly loud. Hikaru pulls Pavel's henley off and flings it at the window. Pavel grins. Shoves Hikaru down onto his narrow bed, damn near rips his pants and jockies down, and kneels between his legs. His eyes glow even in the meager light. “I nearly had a fit vhen Papa made you help him vith his dumb projects.”   
  
  
Hikaru lets himself enjoy Pavel's hands running up and down his legs. “Wasn't that bad . . . all I did was hold the welder and tell him stories about you. Why, did you wanna finish giving me a toe-job in front of your parents?”  
  
  
“ _Nyet_ , I vanted to craaaawl under table and sssuck your cock,” Pavel slurs sexily, and licks Hikaru up and down like a lollipop before grabbing his cock and sucking hard on the tip.  
  
  
For an eternity that's not nearly long enough, there's just suction, suction, swipes and drags of tongue, and then suction, because you don't mess with a classic. But the bottom line is, there is _nothing_  in the whole, wide galaxy,or beyond that feels quite like Pavel's mouth on him. Sweet and dirty like a fallen angel, he makes these  _sounds_  that just. . . .  
  
  
. . . stop completely, because Pavel's now across the room, digging through his carry-all, muttering and swearing in Russian and English. But in seconds, he's triumphantly retrieved a mostly empty tube and is kicking off his sprayed-on blue jeans and boxers, snickering madly between hushing his heretofore silent boyfriend.  
  
  
Hikaru rolls his eyes, but smiles. “You dope. What're you giggling about?”  
  
  
“Is--hee!--first time I am hawing sex in my old house, in my old room . . .  _shhh!_ ” he whispers loudly, still slurring, still giggling, and now stroking his cock slowly. Putting on a show that gets better every time Hikaru sees it. He levers himself up on his elbow, eyes most definitely on the prize, but at least half his mind somewhere else.  
  
  
“So . . . wait, you don't consider this your home, anymore?” It makes no sense, because for all that Pavel's smart enough to give  _Spock_  a run for his money, he's the most sentimental, nostalgic person Hikaru's ever met. It's one of the things Hikaru loves about him.  
  
  
Pavel looks blearily thoughtful, but doesn't stop stroking himself. One of Hikaru's kinks is getting Pavel to try and hold a conversation about random things, while masturbating. However that's not what he's after, tonight. “I . . . do. Sort of. Is my first home. But not my  _home_ -home, is . . . ai, is hard to explain. Sveetheart. . . .” There's a pout in his voice, but Hikaru's unwilling to let this go.  
  
  
“So if Saint Petersburg isn't home, where is? Enterprise? The Academy? San Francisco?”  
  
  
“Hikaru,  _s'olnyshko_ , home is not so literal, to me. Is not alvays physical place. Sometimes, is a person, or a feeling.” Pavel laughs a little. “Home is . . . vhere I feel the most loved, and needed. Understand?”  
  
  
“So . . . Enterprise?” Hikaru asks uncertainly, and Pavel makes an impatient sound.  
  
  
“Ai, too much talking! I vant you in me, in my room--I have been fantasizing for months!” Pavel starts to cross the room, trips on something (probably his shoes), and nearly goes sprawling. Rights himself, swearing loudly. “Ow!  _Chto za huy! Chyort voz'mi!_! Fuck!”  
  
  
“Be careful!” Hikaru laughs, sitting up all the way to turn on the bedside lamp. It's old-fashioned, like almost everything in this house, casting the room in dim, yellowish, electric light. Strange, but it dramatizes Pavel's beauty, makes him a mysterious incubus come to steal Hikaru's soul.  
  
  
 _Not that he'd have to_ steal, Hikaru thinks as Pavel pushes him back down and straddles his waist. He's broad-shouldered and long, his head a mess of brown curls with reddish highlights. Skin that's normally ghostly-pale is peachy in the warm electric light, and his sparse chest hair is pale gold.  
  
  
His thighs are leanly-muscled, his knees knobby, and scarred. Vulnerable-looking. If Hikaru could reach them, he'd kiss them. But he contents himself with running his finger up Pavel's flushed, hard (circumcised, and Pavel's got a weird fetish about the fact that Hikaru's is  _not_ ) cock. As consolation prizes go, he's had far worse.  
  
  
“I need you so much . . . I am not vanting to be careful. I vant to be  _vild,_ ” Pavel breathes, and as if to belie that, pushes the lube into Hikaru's hand. Then the grin slips and that fuzzy-thoughtful look makes a reappearance. “Though perhaps ve might be, em, qviet . . . the valls here are not sound-proof.”  
  
  
“Huh.” Hikaru's never been in a house without sound-proofing. The various Creches he'd grown up in were all done in the newest style: holo-panels and libraries in every room, everything changeable at a moments notice. A small replimat on the premises. Full sound-proofing, because even kids without families--maybe  _especially_  kids without families--got loud. “But your folks are all the way down the hall. They're not gonna . . .  _hear_  us, right?”  
  
  
Pavel shrugs with sudden, rubbery-limbed bravado, as if to say  _who cares?_  “Ewen if they do, I am tventy-two years old, and you are my boooyyyyfriend. They vould have to be stupid to think ve are not hawing sex, and my parents are wery, wery not-stupid. Especially Mama.”  
  
  
Hikaru's hand on Pavel's cock slows, then stops. Imagines what Andrei and Yvgeniya would think if they hear the moans and the pure, unadulterated filth that comes out of Pavel's mouth when they drunk-fuck. Imagines Andrei's head exploding, and Yvgeniya calmly castrating them both. “Yeah, but baby, there's a difference between knowing their son  _probably_  has sex, and hearing with their own ears that he likes it fast and har--” the rest is muffled as Pavel leans down for a long, sloppy, drunk-kiss. And for all that it's uncoordinated, the hand coating Hikaru's fingers in lube knows its business.  
  
  
When the kiss ends, the room is spinning, and dark around the edges--though Hikaru can't tell if that's his own drunkenness or the electrical lighting. Doesn't think it matters with Pavel's tongue in his ear.  
  
  
“I vant to ride you, Hikaru,” he declares in that slurring whisper, probably wearing his imperious _make this happen, Hikaru. Now, please-_ face. “I vant you in me so deep, I cannot ewen  _think_ , but to plead for you to let me come. Then I vant you to keep fucking me till I come again--”  
  
  
Bat-eared parents aside, who could say no to a demand like that?  
  
  
Not Hikaru, and that's been thoroughly proven over the past ten months.  
  
  
Pavel groans long, and  _loud_  as Hikaru's fingers push slowly into him. The shivering and whispering of his name over and over is a very special reward for Hikaru's distinct lack of willpower. But feeling, and oh, god, _seeing_  Pavel sink onto his cock slowly, while muttering  _da, da, please, Hikaru_ , his eyes wide and unseeing?  
  
  
Is another level of reward entirely.  
  
  


*

  
  
  
Long after Pavel's lost to the deep, snoring, sprawling repose of the inebriated and (if one might be allowed a moment of earned smugness) well-fucked, Hikaru's still awake.  
  
  
This isn't unusual. He's never needed much sleep, and in the past, whenever his lovers slept, after an hour or two of sleep, he'd be somewhere working out. Or flying whatever he could get his hands on. Or reading about aircraft. Or sometimes, just staring up at the sky.  
  
  
He's always been something of a one note song, and being with Pavel hasn't changed this propensity to one note-dom. Though it  _has_  lessened the frequency and intensity of his need to fly away, however briefly, from his bedmate.  
  
  
But tonight, he's been standing at the window of Pavel's room for nearly an hour, simply looking out. Nothing moves on the old, narrow streets but the wind-swept trees, waving and flapping like scandalized old ladies. Street-lights that only look old-fashioned are lit and spaced about one-third of a block apart. They give the city the same mysterious air that'd shrouded Pavel's room earlier.  
  
  
It's a strange city. And  _old_. Nothing like Fresno, or Reseda, or even San Fran. It's intimidating, slightly depressing, and hints at a past that's as gritty and dirty as it is bright and magnificent. It's a place that's seen sinners, saint, and revolutionaries; madmen, martyrs, and prophets. It's home to more genius than just Pavel Chekov, and it's cold as  _fuck_  three quarters of the year. It's not an easy city to get to know, or come to love, and almost no one on the streets smiled at him just  _because_ , and. . . .  
  
  
Hikaru kinda likes it. Without understanding it, he knows he will carry this city within him till the day he dies, and more than ever, he hopes that on that day, death finds him sound asleep in Pavel's arms. Like he should be right now.  
  
  
But his mind and heart are full. Too full, even, to allow sleep. The events of the day and of the past five years jostle and crowd within him, vying with each other for dominance, and never has sleep seemed so far away than at this most peaceful on nights. He wants nothing more than to be back in bed with Pavel, dreaming or fucking, or some sleepy combination of both . . . but the muscles in his legs, and the one between his ears itch and tingle. Are fighting to stretch body and mind into that place where he doesn't need a ship to fly. . . .  
  
  
Finally, his blood singing, Hikaru sighs, more relief than resignation, and digs quietly though his carry-all. Finds what he needs and dresses quickly in a t-shirt, tracksuit, and running shoes.  
  
  
He hasn't had much opportunity to go for a pre-dawn, dirt-side run during the past five years, but now, in this strangely kindred city, despite the wintry air, he finds that he can't disobey the call. Can't ignore that place inside himself that always wants to be flying, even when it's on the ground.  
  
  
Once dressed, he goes back to the bed and pulls the covers up to Pavel's chin. Watches him sleep, until that full feeling becomes overflowing.  
  
  
“I love you, and I'll be thinking of you often,” he whispers, this time in English, kissing Pavel's hair. He lingers, even as his body's urging him to go, go,  _go_. . . .  
  
  
But eventually he's pulling the door quietly shut and tiptoeing down the pitch-dark wooden stairs, every creak as loud as projectile-fire. Halfway down (and already sweating because he's certain he's not only woken the whole house, but the attached houses to either side of it), the hall light comes on and he freezes, staring down into Yvgeniya Chekov's pale, tired face.  
  
  
“There is no need to be creeping, Heekaru. After so much wodka, and so much excitement, the Chekov men will be sleeping like the dead,” she informs him from the ground floor landing. She sounds like that singer from that  _movie_  about the schoolteacher and the cabaret.  
  
  
Her hair is loose, and she's holding a mug and a book. (An actual  _book_.) She's wearing what have to be Andrei's sweats, as loose and short as the pants are. It makes him think of Pavel who, when they aren't too drunk to get into sleep clothes, sleeps in Hikaru's old sweats, loose and short though they are. . . .  
  
  
 _Go, go, go_ , his muscles urge with every beat of his heart, and he steps down another step. And another.  
  
  
“So, you are runner, yes?” Yvgeniya asks, her head tilted curiously. She reminds him of Spock, again, even more than she reminds him of Pavel, and for a minute he just stands there, frozen like a puppy caught piddling on the carpet.  
  
  
“Hunh? Oh, yeah! Yeah, I was, but I haven't had much of a chance to do it since we left Earth, unless you count treadmills,” he says self-deprecatingly, because  _he_  sure doesn't. “It's kinda hard to get mental-space when you can't get physical-space. Not that I, um, need space from you guys, or Pavel, it's just--”  
  
  
“I understand,” Yvgeniya says, and smiles like she genuinely does. “New places and faces can be taxing, sometimes--Chekov men can  _also_  be . . . taxing. Sometimes. Lovely, but taxing. For those times, I have tea, and Tolstoy.” She holds up the book and the mug, her smile turned gently wry. “And you, Heekaru, will have the night air, and the wonders of Saint Petersburg. Enjoy them in good health.”  
  
  
“I will . . . thank you, Yvgeniya.”  
  
  
A second later she's passing him on the stair, smelling of black tea and something dry and dusty--what he can only assume is old paper. He's barely ever been around  _new_  paper, so really isn't any judge. Then she's gone, on bare, noiseless feet.  
  
  
Hikaru's still standing there well after the door to the Chekov's bedroom opens and shuts quietly.  
  
  
He really,  _really_  hopes that she and Andrei hadn't heard him fucking their son. Or that if they heard, they'll at least  _pretend_  they hadn't.  
  
  
Once outside, he takes a deep breath in and out, then another. Listens to the way his body practically sings, and the slush-throb of heart and blood. Realizes with complete detachment that he doesn't remember the lock-code to get back in, but then. . . that doesn't matter. Pavel remembers it, and that's enough for now. So he pulls the door firmly shut, and lingers just long enough to hear the lock whir and click. Looks up into the cloudy sky, and yawns. It turns into a monster of a sneeze, halfway through. There's force, spray, and volume: a trifecta of  _eew._  
  
  
“El grande sneezarillo,” Hikaru tells the pre-dawn air, and his voice already sounds scratchy. He knows he's probably not dressed warmly enough, but that's spilled milk for the next couple of hours. Once he starts running, he should be warm enough, and anyway, he never gets sick.  
  
  
He stretches quickly, pleased when his muscles don't protest. Then he jogs down to the wrought-iron gate-door and steps out. Looks east and west, chooses the latter and stretches once more. He feels like he's the wind. Like. . . .  
  
  
red light  
  
  
. . . like he just might, sans ship or ultrawarp drive, achieve infinite velocity today. Like--  
  
  
green light  
  
  
\--like he's all places and all times. Like--  
  
  
go  
  
  
\--like he's gone.  
  
  


*

  
  
  
Shushary is full of old-style houses, like the set of some period-piece holo.  
  
  
They're tall and narrow, some attached, some not. In the near-distance, he can see the well-lit, soft-edged, almost-skyline of the Hermitage, and the Winter Palace off in the distance. He even runs along the embankment of the Neva River, tempted to cross over to Vasilievsky Island, briefly eager to see the oldest part of an ancient city--  
  
  
But even more than he wants to see these sights, he wants to see them with Pavel at his side. And possibly Yvgeniya and Andrei.  
  
  
So he turns away from that tempting sight, lets his mind empty and his feet carry him through other districts of the city. Through Kupchino and Troitskoe Field. Through Rzhevka-Porokhovye and South-West. Through the silent, mostly empty Residential Blocks. . . .  
  
  
He encounters few others on foot, most of them also running, and neither he nor they are inclined to exchange pleasantries.  
  
  
The sky has begun to turn light when he slows to a jog, in a large, but decreasing circle, a quick rest-up before he turns back the way he came, only. . . .  
  
  
He backtracks for half a mile before admitting to himself that he's misremembering the turns he's taken. That he doesn't recognize the area he's in at all, either from the ride on the Metro, or from Pavel's exhaustive--exhausting--map-questing and description. Hell, he can't even see the lighter patch of sky that'd be directly above well-lit Vasilievsky Island.  
  
  
“Oh, smooth move, Ex-Lax, you just lost half of Saint Petersburg. Fucking genius,” he mutters to himself, ignoring the extremely unhelpful street signs (in Russian and Standard) and making for a public comm in a weather-beaten little kiosk that clearly sees a lot of traffic. The touch-screen is a little sluggish, but voice activation seems to work just fine.  
  
  
In seconds, he's accessed Saint Petersburg CityNet. When it asks him in Russian, then Standard--and  _is_  it just him, or do all the computers in the galaxy sound exactly like Nurse Chapel?--how it can assist him this morning, he blanks completely, staring at the screen and jogging in place.  
  
  
For almost a minute he isn't sure who he is, where he is, or what he wants, only that he's more lost and alone than he's been in a very long time. Momentarily panicked, he prods his tired, disoriented brain and all it gives him is one quick flash that tells him everything he needs to know:  
  
  
Round blue eyes and curly light-brown hair Hikaru loves to touch, to brush, to wash when they shower together and tug on when he's getting a hummer. And that mouth . . . perfect pink lips and a smile that beggars the paltry sunrise struggling into existence above him. Beggars even the most beautiful sunrise, because  _his_  smile lifts Hikaru's spirits (among other things) when nothing else can.  
  
  
 _I think it's because he's . . . my home,_  Hikaru realizes, and struggles to understand.  _Not just because he's beautiful, or because I love him, but because as long as I'm with him, no matter where we are, I am home._  
  
  
It feels like something he may have already known . . . somewhere deep down. Because he's neither surprised, nor does he feel like he's had an epiphany. Rather . . . he feels like he's finally caught a tram that he's missed many times in the past. Granted, he's not entirely sure where this tram  _goes_ , but he can't help being happy he's finally caught a ride.  
  
  
Especially since Pavel's on the tram with him, and holding his hand.  
  
  
“I, uh . . . I guess I need directions home,” he tells the comm wonderingly, mildly shaken that he means it with every fiber of his being. That he means  _Shushary_ \--tall, narrow, imposing Shushary, where his lover sleeps in a tall, narrow, imposing old house that creaks and isn't soundproof and has electric lights, and a  _basement_  filled with bad abstract sculpture, and--  
  
  
Hikaru laughs till he's wheezing, and scalding tears are running down his cold face.  
  
  
The CityNet finally stops asking him to clarify  _home_ , and advises him to remain calm, that he may be unwell, and it has alerted the authorities. And though he's almost tempted to see if the peace-keeper who shows up looks like McCoy or M'Benga . . . he quickly decides it's just not worth the hassle of explaining his behavior.  
  
  
Still laughing, he thanks the Chapel-comm kindly, and trots off.  
  
  
After a few blocks, giggles still burbling up out of him sporadically (some of them on the back of sneezes that don't bode well) Hikaru's feet turn him toward the sunrise.  
  
  
 _Take me to where Pavel is, to_ home, he tells his body redundantly. It may never have had a traditional home, but that doesn't mean it doesn't know how to get back to the closest it's ever had to one.  
  
  
Without his guidance, his legs carry him further east, and a little north. He lets his body do its own thinking--right foot and left foot, huff and puff--while his mind focuses on  _home_  . . . on the first person to ever love and need him.  
  
  


*

  
  
  
Exhausted, and sodden in sweat despite the cold, Hikaru lopes laboriously up a familiar street and lets himself into a familiar wrought-iron gate.  
  
  
Pavel is sitting on his parents' front steps, pale and incandescent in the overcast sunrise and against a backdrop of grey stone. Grinning, Hikaru uses a sudden second wind to sprint up the narrow walk and Pavel stands, looking young, small, and  _cold_  in just his skinny jeans and one of Hikaru's old Academy sweatshirts. But his smile is warm. It's always  _so warm_ , just like the arms that open for him. But Hikaru stops short, and jogs in place.  
  
  
“You don't even wanna  _know_  how sweaty and gross I am, right now,” he begins apologetically, but Pavel's already walking toward him, and enveloping him in those warm, gentle arms. It takes a few seconds, but Hikaru relaxes. Stops jogging in place and lets himself be held for a long,  _long_ time, before lifting Pavel up and swinging him around in a circle.  
  
  
“Ai, put me down! You are crazy person! Let me go!” he demands, but he's giggling, and wrapping his legs around Hikaru's hips and his arms around Hikaru's neck. He's heavier than he looks, but not more than Hikaru can handle. Or carry. Or fuck against any wall.  
  
  
“Hah. Never letting you go.” One hand holding Pavel, the other inching its way past the waistband of sexy, but inconveniently tight jeans, Hikaru squeezes and kneads until Pavel makes one of those amazing sounds of his and leans in for a slow kiss hello.  
  
  
Thanks to his mini-revelation, Hikaru's been half-hard for most of his return run (which, of course, makes running so much  _easier_  and not at all awkward), but now, half goes right out the window. Pavel's probably still stretched and slick from a few hours ago, and if they could just make it to a closet, if not Pavel's bedroom. Or maybe behind that tall, skeletal shrub. . . .  
  
  
Which is like a dash of ice-water right to his dick, and he shivers deeply, given pause. The thrill of fucking his boyfriend not only outside, but outside of their . . . home . . . is almost evenly balanced by the absolute  _no_  that is the idea of baring himself to a Russian winter. Even if it's just for a few seconds till he's in Pavel.  
  
  
Although . . . a little cold never killed anyone. . . .  
  
  
“My strong, handsome pilot . . . what's wrong?” Pavel breathes between kisses. He tastes like strong coffee, and still faintly of vodka.  
  
  
“Think we could get away with fucking right on your doorstep? Like, right against your front door?” Hikaru asks, then chases those tastes around Pavel's mouth until his achy lungs call a time-out and Pavel's gasping, rather than giggling.  
  
  
“There . . . is no place . . . I  _wouldn't_  . . . let you fuck me, but--” a regretful sigh. “You are going to catch pneumonia if we stay out here.”  
  
  
“No way,” Hikaru dismisses, clearing his throat (ignoring the tickle in it) and grins. “I never get sick.”  
  
  
Pavel rolls his eyes. “If you think that means you are impervious to cold, you are being utterly ridiculous.”  
  
  
“And  _you_  are being incredibly adorable. And hot, let's not forget hot.” He presses kisses all over Pavel's throat and jaw. “You're so  _warm_ , and I want you so much. Can I have you? Right here. . . ?”  
  
  
“But Hikaru, is  _cold_  out, and sun is up. . . .”  
  
  
Hikaru's rebuttal is fairly ingenious. It consists of kissing Pavel until he stops trying to talk. Until he's holding onto Hikaru so tight, that Hikaru's hands are free to roam at will, and  _yes_ , Pavel's still stretched and slick from before, an oasis of heat and heaven in the midst of brutal, bone-numbing cold.  
  
  
Hikaru means to walk them to the wall, where he can get a little leverage and support, and . . . and. . . .  
  
  
“What? What is wrong?” Pavel asks, all pink cheeks and sexy pout. When Hikaru leans back, frowning and narrow-eyed. “Why you  _stop_?”  
  
  
Opening his mouth to answer--Hikaru sneezes instead.  
  
  
 _Big-time_.  
  
  
All over Pavel's face.  
  
  
“Oh,  _fuck_! Shit-shit-shit—sorry, Pavel, I'm sorry, I--oh, fuck-shit!” he stammers, wiping Pavel's face with his sweaty sleeve as Pavel . . . stands there, eyes wide, face frozen in an incredulous gape. “Sweetie? Baby? I--”  
  
  
Then Hikaru gets that nasally tickle again, but this time at least he manages to turn his face to the side. And it's a good thing he does, because another two sneezes come on the heels of the second one, the trifecta of  _eww_ , in three-part harmony.  
  
  
“See,” Pavel says gravely, sternly, his face now eerily serene--despite having been, well, not _covered_  in snot. But pretty liberally speckled--so that he looks exactly like his mother. It's like _time machine_  multiplied by  _whoa_. “Pneumonia.”  
  
  
Hikaru grimaces and sniffles, wiping his nose on his sleeve. Then sniffles again, his nose fogging up. “I, uh, think there're a few steps between the sniffles and full-blown pneumonia, Pavel.”  
  
  
Pavel's eyebrows lift up just a little, not high enough to disappear under his curly hair. “Yes. And you seem to have skeeped all of them. Now, enough seelliness. Come inside.”  
  
  
Hikaru's nose may be on the fritz, but his dick still works just fine. “What about--”  
  
  
“ _Now_ , Hikaru.” This look of  _I-will-be-obeyed_? Purely Pavel. It's as scary as it is sexy, and Hikaru's body genuinely doesn't know what to do with itself. “Hot shower, hot soup, then warm bed. If you are not in hospital later,  _then_  we will fuck. For now:  _inside_. Triple-time, Lieutenant.”  
  
  
And without another word, he tugs a strongly protesting (mostly by dragging his feet and grumbling inaudibly) Hikaru up the steps and into the house, pausing only to show him the lock-code again. Hikaru can't make heads nor tails of the Cyrillic characters, and knows he'll be days remembering it--that he's likely to forget it the moment they get inside.  
  
  
But Pavel remembers it, and that's enough for now.  
  



End file.
